


Any Other Day

by veronamay



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dean Feels, Humor, M/M, Valentine's Day Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-02-14
Updated: 2007-02-14
Packaged: 2018-01-12 15:50:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1190820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/veronamay/pseuds/veronamay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Valentine's Day, Dean-style.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Any Other Day

It's late on a Wednesday night, and they're in The Middle of Nowhere, Minnesota. Sam's fighting off a migraine; he's pissy and tired, so Dean offers to go out and scrounge some dinner. He gets a grunt in reply from behind the closed bathroom door.

There's nobody on the streets, which given it's about ten below freezing isn't that surprising. Dean hunches into his jacket and ducks his head against the sleet blowing into his face, knowing he'll be soaked by the time he gets back. Sam better leave him some hot water, or Dean's going to put his cold feet all the way up his spine when they go to bed.

He spots a convenience store on the corner and trudges toward it. It's empty of customers, and almost as cold inside as without. The blue-haired, nose-pierced cashier ignores him when he tromps inside, the kid's earphones clearly transmitting the low-pitched whining sound of Nickelback. Dean rolls his eyes and heads over to the hot food, picking up some chips and Ho-Hos on the way.

He's on his way back to the cashier, arms full of hot dogs and burritos of suspicious origin and longevity, when he spots the pathetic display in his peripheral vision. A few bedraggled bunches of flowers, drooping in their cellophane wrappers; stray cards bereft of envelopes, bent and fingerprinted beyond saleability; two battered boxes of candy lying drunkenly on their sides. Limp streamers of red and white border the whole, straggling dejectedly over the stampeded remains of what had been a charming little display. Probably. Dean doesn't really know; he doesn't pay attention to crap like that.

He keeps seeing it in the corner of his eye, though, while he's digging through his wallet to pay the cashier. Little flashes of red and white; a faint whiff of roses and chocolate. He's not the candy-and-flowers type, never has been.

Sam is, though. Dean knows that without having to ask.

He ignores the display, and pulls a crumpled twenty from the depths of his wallet (gonna have to hustle again tomorrow, they're down to loose change now till the new card comes through). The cashier picks it daintily from his hand with a wrinkled nose and rings up the food, giving him his sparse change.

Dean grabs the bags from the counter and turns to leave. The display presents itself forlornly, blocking his way to the door.

Dean stares it down, daring it to best him.

The display becomes, if possible, even more pathetic; a pink and white card covered in love hearts topples slowly off the side of the rack, sliding miserably to the floor.

A single rose petal wafts after it.

" _Fuck_ ," Dean growls, and spins back to the counter. "How much?"

"How much for what?" The clerk chews gum and stares at him blankly.

"All of it." Dean empties his wallet and pockets on the counter, dimes and quarters jingling everywhere. "What'll that get me?"

The kid looks from the loose change to Dean's face, and takes a cautious step back.

"It's on sale," he says nervously. "Knock yourself out."

Dean empties the rack, shoves it all in an extra bag and is out the door before the kid can see his ears turning red. All the way back to the motel, he pretends the extra bag doesn't exist, or that it's filled with Fritos and Betty Crocker frosting (which he totally loves, and Sam can't stand, which means all the more for him). By the time he pulls into the parking space outside their room, he's almost convinced himself.

Sam's asleep on his bed when Dean gets inside. He looks tired, face pale and drawn like always after a bad one. Dean moves cat-quiet around the room, stowing Sam's dinner in the tiny bar fridge.

The incriminating bag sits on Dean's bed, advertising his utter girlyness more with every passing second. Dean scowls at it and considers throwing the whole thing in the trash.

Sam turns over, mumbling Dean's name, hand grasping at nothing. A frown of discontent mars his face for an instant; then he's back under, mouth slightly open, not quite snoring into his pillow.

Dean stares at his brother for several minutes without moving. Then he empties the bag of its contents and goes to work.

* * *

He wakes up to see Sam looming over him on all fours, a delighted smile lighting up his face. Dean blinks several times, trying to clear his eyes; Sam doesn't move. His elbows are planted beside Dean's shoulders, hands carding through Dean's hair. Their legs tangle lazily together, hips bumping pleasantly.

"Dude, _what_?" Dean demands at last, aiming for just-woke-up grumpy.

Judging by the way Sam's smile gets even brighter, he fails. Dean feels his face heating up; he wants to move, roll over, get away, but Sam's got him boxed in and he can't go anywhere.

"Shut up," he mutters, closing his eyes.

Sam's mouth lights on his eyelids, his nose, his jaw. Softly, briefly, on his mouth.

"Didn't say anything," he breathes into Dean's parted lips.

"Good," Dean breathes back. "Keep it that way."

He rolls suddenly, pushing Sam over onto his back, burying his face in the crook between Sam's shoulder and neck. He doesn't look over to the other bed, where Sam slept surrounded by rose petals and Valentine's Day cards, two boxes of candy (now empty) stacked up on the nightstand. And if Sam ever mentions it, he's going to cry poltergeist.

END


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